Bab5 fanfic

[icarus_chained]

Probably no-one to read this, but it wouldn't leave until I wrote it.

Title:  Against the Dawn
Rating:  Hard R to NC-17 
Characters/Pairings: Londo/Timov, and Vir shows up for a bit at the end.
Summary:  After everything's over and done, Timov remembers their wedding night, the one and only time when, by law, they had to sleep together (playing fast and loose with Centauri law, here). And the one gift he ever gave her.
Warnings:  Um. Het. Centauri sex, which, um, involves tentacles. And this happens to be a deathfic, on top of it.
Notes:  I used the term brachiartiaes, because I heard it somewhere. I doubt it's canon. Or even spelled correctly. Not something I usually think about, you see.
Wordcount: 6527 (it *really* needed writing)
Disclaimer: I don't own Bab5.

Against the Dawn

 

 

The woman sat beneath the statue, the blade resting on her knees. It was just dawn, the first brush of light across the sky, and there was that stillness in the air that came with that time. The hush of anticipation for the coming day. Timov shook her head a little at the thought. Such romantic maunderings! They had always been more Londo's style than hers.

She looked up at him then. At the face of their fallen emperor, their doomed champion. Her husband.

Oh, she did not fool herself. Their relationship had been based, with stunning success, on an almost complete lack of contact with each other. They had never even really been friends, let alone anything deeper, and she knew that he had had people in his life that he had cared for with a depth of passion and love that would never have been possible between them. People like that slave, Adira. Oh yes, she'd heard. And people like Vir, whom Londo had loved like a friend and like a son. And even the Narn. G'Kar. Londo's death and his salvation. The man who would stand side by side with her husband forever, now, watching over Centauri Prime.

Or as long as statues lasted, anyway. Lets not get carried away.

But still. She was not given to nostalgia, considered it a sterling waste of time, but she was old now. Tired. And it was her privilege, to indulge herself now. He had been her husband, for all that. And there had been something between them. Not love. Or at least, not the kind of love that people believed should be between a wife and her husband. It had been something else.

It had been respect. And, if she was honest, which she believed one should always be with oneself, there had been a kind of grudging affection, too. Her for his helpless need for love, he for her determined denial of it. A strange kind of love, theirs.

She looked down at the blade in her lap. It gleamed softly in the burgeoning light, a golden slide down the smooth, sharp curves. It was as sharp as ever, of course, as deadly as the day he gave it to her. The one real gift he'd ever given her, but it was far more meaningful and precious in its way than the piles of treasures he had heaped on her sister wives, while they had lasted. It meant something to her, even still.

It meant respect, his for her, and gratitude, hers to him.

And for a little while, as the light grew, she let herself remember how he had come to give it to her. She indulged herself, and allowed herself to remember their first and only night together, the night demanded by duty and law, and what had come of it.

She remembered him.

----------

 

It was more than true to say that Londo Mollari had had his fair share of nights of passion in his lifetime. Probably more than his fair share. It was also true to say that most of them hadn't been with his wives, although there were a few notable exceptions here or there. But that was simply the way of Centauri marraige. It was an alliance of convenience, nine times out of ten, and almost no-one went into it expecting to get any personal gratification out of it. Certainly she hadn't.

Of course, there were always those who went into it expecting exactly that, and who meant to get it one way or another. Women were not the most respected of creatures in Centauri society, after all, and more than one young woman had gone into her first marriage, particularly if it was to an older gentleman, and found that it was little more than a kind of sexual slavery. The determined wife could always resort to those traditional equalisers, of course, most typically poison, but a depressing number of young women never plucked up the courage, and whiled away the years towards widowhood in one long stream of misery.

If the first of those exceptional nights with his wives that Londo experienced had been his wedding night with Timov, then thankfully it was not for those reasons. If any woman was determined enough to level the playing field, it was her. But it had not come to that.

Although it had been a near thing.

It was a part of the formal ceremony, as necessary for a proper marriage as the actual vows, that the wedded couple consumate their union on the night of the wedding. It was the only time that a couple was actually required, by law, to sleep together. After that, their sex lives were entirely their own affair, and that of anyone looking for blackmail material. But that first night, every dutiful Centauri knew what was required of them, not matter how little they wanted it personally.

Timov had never held that much regard for the law. Not when it was so obviously stupid, at any rate.

She hadn't known what to expect of her new husband, at first. The wedding had been the first time they had met face to face. Her family had, perhaps wisely, decided not to frighten her husband off before the deed was done. And she couldn't say she'd been exactly impressed by her first sight of him. She'd wondered if she might be, after all she'd heard. The man had at least had the courage to attempt to elope, once. But it seemed that had been driven out of him. The man who placed his hand in hers had been subdued, wan and red-eyed. Probably hungover.

She had not approved.

Then came the fateful night. She had already decided that she had no wish to be touched by him. But she was curious to see how he would attempt to press the issue, or even if he would try at all. Would he come to her drunk, too inebriated to try? Or would he try to force her, as she knew some husbands did? If that were the case, she would have to be quick in dissuading him. By all accounts, he was fit, a swordsman of some skill. She would have to get her point across quickly.

When he came in, she was still fully dressed, standing stiff and firm and ready for war. Londo paused at the sight of her, standing in the doorway with his coat undone and his shirt half-open, and not nearly so drunk as she'd feared. He had looked at her with surprisingly intelligent eyes, taken the measure of her challenge, and sighed heavily.

She raised her head with a frown at that, watching as he turned and carefully closed the door behind him. He stopped for a minute, hand still on the doorhandle, and leaned forward to rest his forehead tiredly against the door, a curiously despairing gesture that piqued her interest, if not her sympathy. Then he straightened himself, drawing himself up with the pride of a Centauri nobleman to turn and face her. That, she had approved of.

"Timov," he greeted, softly, his hands automatically stretching out to either side of him in expansive greeting. The man had no restraint when it came to presentation. She sniffed audibly.

"Londo," she returned, flatly. He sighed again, and came a few more steps into the room.

"Timov," he started again, in a tone she had no doubt was meant to be concillatory. She raised a contemptuous eyebrow. "Timov, my wife. Is this any way to begin our lives together?" He smiled hopefully, and her opinion of him dropped again. If he was going to try and wheedle her into it, if he did not even have the guts to demand it as was his right, then she really would not waste her time with him. She despised weak men, almost as much as she hated weak women. A Centauri should have some guts about him.

"I don't know what your opinion on the matter might be, Londo," she began, waspishly. "But I have no intention of having anything remotely like a life together. A decent bit of distance, for example a continent or two, is the foundation of the best marriages, in my opinion."

He blinked at her, then barked out an appreciative laugh. She started a little at the sound, and watched him curiously as he shook his head wryly and looked back at her. "I know exactly what you mean," he murmured. "And believe me, I'll probably be grateful you hold such an opinion tomorrow. But I'm afraid that still leaves us with the problem of tonight, my dear."

She sniffed. "Hardly a problem. There is ample room in the suite for both of us to sleep without having to disturb each other."

He shook his head sadly. "It is our duty, this night at least," he said. She stiffened, sensing the real confrontation was imminent and readying herself for it.

"I do not believe in so foolish a duty!" she snapped, and his head came up, something strange and powerful appearing in his eyes. Something wounded, and stern.

"I do!" he returned, harshly. "If I am to be trapped by my duty, then by the Maker I will perform it to the full! This marriage is my duty as much as yours, Timov Algul, and I believe I wished for it about as much as you did. But it has been asked of me, and I will stand by it!"

She blinked at him. That was more spine than she had expected of him. He might not be a complete loss as a husband, after all. But that did not change her immediate opinion. She was not going to be intimate with him. She was sure on that. She raised her head. "Be that as it may. I will stand by my duties as your wife in every other respect, Londo Mollari. But I will not do this. You must force me, if that is your wish." She cast it at him as a challenge, contempt in every line of her.

And seeing it, he smiled.

She blinked at him. "Do you find something I have said amusing?" she asked archly. His smile widened, and he shook his head, watching her with sad, smiling eyes as he crossed the last of the distance between them, coming to a stop in front of her. She drew herself up to her full height in the face of him, and waited.

He stood for a minute, just watching her. Studying her, as she imagined he would study an opponent before a duel, and there was something in his eyes that looked almost like admiration. And then, even as she watched him, he took her hand gently, and knelt in one swift movement at her feet. She stared.

"My dear Timov," he murmured. "My dearest poisonous one. And how do you suppose I am meant to do that? Force you?" He shook his head ruefully, and smiled up at her. "I doubt there is a Centauri alive who could manage it. No. Besides, the very idea appalls me. I would never force myself on any woman!"

She stared down at him for a moment, appraisingly, then sighed in disappointment. "I see," she said caustically. "You are one of those men who tries to fool himself into thinking that women would actually want to sleep with him. That he is somehow making it pleasurable for them. How ... naive of you."

He blinked. "Well," he murmured, as if torn between amusement and chagrin. "That's me put in my place. Tell me, my dear. Am I ever going to do anything that will please you?"

She pursed her lips. "Unlikely." And he laughed, and stood up again, although he maintained his grip on her hand. And seemed to pause to think it over, rubbing his thumb absently over the back of his hand. She found it a mildly annoying habit.

"What are we to do?" he asked finally. "I can see you're going to be obstinate, my dear. You have that look about you, and an obstinate woman is not going to be moved once her mind is made up. That I do know. But I'm afraid I cannot stand down on this matter either. It is our duty, and one I have always believed in fulfilling. The gods ask us to love as well as we would die, and I hold that duty sacred."

She raised her eyebrows slowly, the contempt plain, and stiffly removed her hand from his grasp. "I'm sure I do not know," she said coolly, and waited for him to move.

He studied her for another minute, and then turned away to walk over to their marriage bed. He stood looking down at it for a long time, his shoulders stiff and hunched. He looked rather forlorn, actually. Timov wasn't quite sure what to make of it, especially when he sat down on the edge of the bed with a tired sigh, and looked back at her wearily.

"I would ask you why you did not want to be with me," he murmured, and smiled a little. "But for the sake of my self-esteem, I will not. You look as if you have a list prepared, yes?"

She huffed a little. "Your self-esteem needs no help from me, and if your performance at the feast is anything to go by, it would not suffer even from the most pointed demonstration of your inadequacy. You act almost as if you are proud of your defects." But she moved a little closer, oddly disarmed by him. He chuckled.

"A man should be himself, should he not?" he asked, and for a second she saw a glimmer of the idealistic young man he might once have been. Might even still be, somewhere under that drunkard's facade. "Can we not come to an agreement, my lady? Can you not suffer yourself even to try, for this one night?"

"Why?" she asked, crisply. "What would it benefit me? I hold you in no high regard, and I care even less for the opinions of others. I have no need of their approval, or yours."

"No. I do see that about you, yes," he acknowledged. "But if we were to strike a deal? I am a patient and persuasive man, Timov. And I could badger you for a long time about this matter, and neither of us would enjoy that. But if, for this one night, we could do our duty by each other ... then could we not go our own ways for the rest of out marriage?"

"We could go our ways own now," she observed, but she had begun to see a hint of steel in him, and understood that he really was not going to back down. But neither did he seem to intend to force her.

She was almost disappointed by that.

"Timov," he said, softly and reproachfully, and she snapped. Snarling at him, she stomped over to stand over him as he sat there, looking up at her with a faint smile and a strange admiration, and planted her fists on her hips.

"Don't you take that tone with me!" she snapped. "I'm no rebellious child to be reined in. I am an adult, Londo Mollari, and I am entitled to make my own choices. You'd best remember that!"

He smiled up at her. "I am unlikely to forget, no? If I did, I'm sure you would not be long in reminding me. One night, my deadly one. Is one night too much to ask?"

She paused to consider. "One night, and you would never touch me again?" she asked, voice clear and eyes bright as she made ready to drive home her bargain. He shrugged.

"Unless you ask me, my dearest viper," he said, with an odd little smile. She hmpfed at that.

"I will not, rest assured. Alright Londo. A deal. One night." She held out her hand in the fashion of commoners, and he blinked up at her for a second before seizing it in a firm grasp and shaking it.

"A deal," he echoed, and leered up at her. "But don't you think that gown would be a little uncomfortable?"

She raised her eyebrows. "I will change in a few minutes. But Londo? Remember this: if you break your bargain with me, I will kill you. Don't forget it."

He gave her a lopsided smile at that. "Murder has always been a woman's preogative, my dear. A woman's hate is more deadly than the sharpest kutari. I would not like to risk yours."

She looked at him, and nodded sharply. "So long as we're clear."

--------

 

He was already in the bed when she came back out, and for a moment she quailed, but that did not last long. She was not a woman to shirk from an agreement, however distasteful it was.

Squaring her shoulders proudly, she walked across the carpetted floor of their room, as naked as the day she was born. She disdained the elegant rails and gowns that other young women drapped themselves in, just so their husband could rip them out of them again. It was wasteful, and impractical, and on the whole she thought it better just to start as you meant to continue. Which in this case meant getting undressed from the get-go. But she could not deny a certain flare of warmth in her belly as he stared in frank amazement at her audacity, at this rather stunning example of her practicality, and seemed to like what he saw.

Not that it changed her feelings about this in the slightest.

She stopped beside the bed, and for a second simply stood there, fists on her hips as she tried to hide the fact that at this point, she wasn't at all sure what she was meant to do. She's never intended events to come to this. And in truth had never experienced the like before. It had never interested her to seek out such things. She began to regret that lack of research now.

He did not seem to mind the delay at all. In fact, he seemed to be taking the opportunity to study her in some detail, as if trying to map every inch of her for future reference. She nearly blushed, and felt a bizarre urge to cover herself, as if she should somehow be ashamed. But she resisted it, keeping her hands firmly planted, and glared down at him in the hopes that he would make the appropriate first move. And after a moment or two of simply staring at her, he seemed to realise that something was required of him, and looked up at her.

"You know, you are quite beautiful, my dear," he murmured, almost as if it surprised him, and she stopped herself from sniffing with an effort. She wasn't sure, but something told her it would be inappropriate. He watched her face, no doubt seeing that repressed urge, and a startlingly rich smile curled across his face. "Though I see you disagree, yes?"

"Beauty is hardly relevant, Londo," she explained, as if to a very slow child. "And I think I would be more inclined to take the majority vote than the opinion of a man with one very definite ulterior motive, at least."

He chuckled. "But the majority is so easily fooled, and so often wrong, my dear," he answered. "Whereas my opinion, questionably motivated or not, is quite obviously based on information that no-one else has, is it not?"

It took her a moment to realise that he was telling her that he had noticed her ignorance on these matters, and concluded that she had been involved with no-one else, and that annoyed her. It annoyed her greatly. The man had no right to know something she didn't, when they were both involved. It was his duty as her husband to either tell her or show her what she needed to know! His lack of consideration was another point against him, in her book, and she determined to teach him a lesson.

Taking her fists from her hips, she curled them loosely at her side, unconsciously taking the stance of a duelist readying herself for battle, and raised one contemptuous eyebrow at her husband. "Am I to stand out here all night, husband?" she asked acidically, and Londo blinked in bemusement at her.

And then, taking her point, he slowly drew aside the coverings to let her in, and she saw him fully for the first time. For a second, she was torn between an almost clinical interest, and a strange, unreasoning fear that she could not quite pin down. Both emotions frustrated her, and she climbed inelegantly into the bed beside her husband before either one could become a problem. He drew the covers back up around them again, curiously gentle, and then stopped to watch her as she lay rigidly beside him, staring resolutely at the ceiling.

"Timov?" he asked softly, oddly tender for a man victorious, or perhaps tender because he had won the victory. But at least he had the sense not to finish that question with an inane 'are you alright?'. She was not in the mood to tolerate inanity. Of course, she rarely was in the mood, but that was entirely beside the point.

"Is this it?" she carped, turning her head to look at him, disdainful challenge in her eyes. And nothing else. Because she was not afraid. Not in the slightest. He blinked, then shook his head with a wry smile.

"My apologies, my lady," he murmured richly. "I should have seen your impatience. Forgive me for not anticipating your wishes."

This time she did sniff. "See that you don't do it again!" she managed, and did not move when he laid a warm hand on her arm, rubbing it gently as if to take away the slight chill the evening had wrapped around her naked form. She met his eyes and held them, in challenge if not exactly permission, and lay very still as he began to touch her. He watched hers in return, with an expression she simply couldn't read, and let his hands explore her. He traced with them the paths his eyes had followed moments before, as if trying to memorise them. Memorise her. She wondered if he did that with all women he did not intend to lie with again. But it was not unpleasant, actually, the touch of those warm, dry hands, so she let him do as he pleased.

For the moment, at least.

He skated his hands lightly up her torso, and she shivered as his fingertips cruised gently over the openings at the base of her spine, feeling an odd tightness run through her. He chuckled lightly, but not mockingly, and she blinked at him as he moved upwards to cup her breasts. His eyes crinkled oddly as he smiled at her, and she stiffened as he leaned in to her face, pulling her head back into the pillow in an effort to keep him in focus. He shook his head.

"May I not kiss you, my lady?" he whispered. "Or do you bite, too?"

She raised her eyebrows instinctively. "I might," she whispered back, archly. "Do you care to take the risk?"

He looked at her for a second, and the sudden incisive intelligence in his regard sent a bolt of worry through her. Then, suddenly, he darted in and seized a quick, almost savage kiss from her lips. He pulled back almost immediately, watching her as she blinked, watched as the shock was quickly swallowed by anger, and grinned fiercely. "Oh yes," he purred, like the liarte he was named after in the duel. "I do care, my lady. I do care very much indeed." And he pulled her suddenly against him, leaning in to kiss her again even as her hands curled into small fists at his chest, and she struggled to find a good angle for a shot. He kissed her deeply, fierce and tinged with adrenalin, and only pulled back with a wheezing laugh when she managed to get an awkward punch in to his kidney. He stared at her breathlessly as she pulled her fists up between them, her eyes blazing, and that odd smile curled across his face again.

"Magnificent," he murmured softly, and she paused in her fury.

"What?" she snapped. He laughed again.

"You, my dear," he explained. "You are quite magnificent, you know. Oh yes, you may bite. You may bite as hard as you please! It would be worth it!"

She blinked at him. "You are a fool," she said at last. "A fool, Londo Mollari. And quite mad, I think." He shrugged easily.

"Very probably," he answered, with a strange, bittersweet expression. Something flashed through her for a second, then. Some sliver of premonition. Not a deathdream. She had had hers already. Something about a blade in the dawn sun, and a sad, round face, and the shadow of a great and foolish man. This was nothing of the kind. But still. Some sense of looming darkness touched her in that moment, a shadow of future pain. And it was centered around that expression, she knew. That regretful, determined look in his eyes. One day, he was going to suffer for his foolish caring. One day, she thought, it was going to destroy him.

And strangely, the thought gave her a moment of pain.

That second of emotion fled, however, when he took advantage of her momentary confusion to try something new. She stiffened like a whipcrack as she felt the hesitant touch at her hip, the touch of something that was most definitely not his hand. He was trying for the first!

Her hand darted down by her side, and caught the offensive member. He swallowed sharply as he felt her hand close around the sensitive flesh, a second of raw panic flitting over his features, and all of a sudden she grinned. Sharply. Dangerously. He blinked at her, eyes wide, and her smile broadened as she fingered his brachiartiae, gently.

So far.

"Ah," he murmured, strained. "I see you have the advantage of me." He offered a queasy smile in placation, and winced when she responded with a light squeeze. "Too soon?"

She pulled herself up a little on her elbow to face him better, still holding him. He met her eyes, wary reassessment in his sharp gaze, and waited for her reply. She gave him a disdainful look. "You did not ask," she explained, cool and composed once more, but there was a gleam of triumph about her. She knew he could restrain her if he wanted to. He had two arms, after all. He could prevent her from stopping him, if he wanted to. But he didn't. He didn't even try. He truly intended to kiss her, even if she bit him for it.

This might not be all that unpleasant, after all.

She smiled at him then, in ferocious challenge, and watched the unexpected flare of appreciation in his eyes. Smiling, she loosened her grip on him, and on a whim tried running her fingers lightly down the flexible length. His eyes darkened, and she blinked at a stir of movement at his torso, where the other five shiftened and tightened a little in sympathy. She looked up at him, tilting her head in question, and he smiled wryly.

"As I said," he murmured, rich and self-amused. "You have the advantage of me, my dear."

She let him go at that, and sat up to look down at him, the covers coming with her so that they fell pooled around her hips, baring her torso to the reddish glow of sunset, and casting her shadow over the uncovered nest at his sides. He looked up at her, curious and patient, a sparkle of soul-deep humour in his eyes, and something in her decided itself.

She would hold him to his bargain. Oh yes. Once this was done, she fully intended that their contact should be curtailled as quickly and thoroughly as possible. Life was too short to waste on people, let alone husbands! But she had agreed to this, and as a woman of her word, it was her duty to make the most of it. To give and take everything she could, just for this night.

It was a matter of pride. But also, deep down, a matter of showing him who exactly was going to be in charge in this marriage of theirs. And it wasn't going to be him.

She gathered up that first questing length again, holding it gently in both hands as he drew in a shuddering breath, watched him until he looked up and met her eyes again. She gave him a pursed smile as she moved her small, clever hands down towards the base, fingertips playing briefly among it's mates before drawing in one smooth motion back up along it. His eyes went dark and deep, and for a second she thought she saw something of what he had given so freely to that dancer of his, something a little like love. But she quickly cast that notion aside, and favoured him with a rich, challenging glare.

"Londo," she said, clear and ever-so-slightly amused. "I think you should show me how this is supposed to work." He blinked, and then gasped as she leaned down into him so she could press the head in her hand to the first and highest of her entrances. She caught her own breath a little at the sensation, the shiver tipping her a little faster than she'd intended into his arms, and then he slipped inside her, a sharp, stretchy pain followed by a sensation of weight, of delicious pressure on her spine, pushing, seeking something deeper within her. She shuddered away from it, shuddered back into it, searching for some way to accomodate this strange invader. He caught her, wrapped his arms around her, held her against it. And laughed a little as he stroked her topknot.

"At your service, my lady," he murmured. "My impetuous viper, yes?"

"Londo," she managed, after a moment, her voice even now stern and contemptuous. "Do be quiet." The man talked entirely too much. He laughed again, as he began to move a little, to show her how the rest of the night would be. He laughed.

But not for long.

--------

 

She remembered waking up the next morning, draped over him as he lay pale and almost ruined beneath her. His brachiartiaes had been curled limply by his sides, tucked in as close as he'd been able to get them before he'd fallen asleep, for safekeeping. She'd wondered if she'd broken any. Obviously not. But she had definitely strained at least two. The thought brought a small stir of pride. She was a novice, yes. But she learned fast.

It hadn't quite been dawn yet. She knew that, remembered looking down at his face in the silvery half-light that heralded its coming, and think 'what a fool'. What a poor, passionate fool. There had been a moment where she'd felt, just for an instant, that strange affection that had reluctantly grown between them. A quiet pity for the man he had chosen to be, a fleeting wish that it might be different. Her premonition had touched her again, had given a pale shudder of warning. But his faint stir as he woke deflected it away, and it was lost.

He'd opened his eyes and then, as he caught sight of her beside him, there'd been a flash of hopeful confusion, a glimmer of disappointed recognition, and finally a long, slow warming of remembered lust and respect. She grinned sharply at him, ignoring the small tug in her gut as she realised that he had thought, for one happy moment, that he was back with his beloved dancer. She grinned at him, and the barbed expression only grew wider when she slapped away his automatic morning grope with definite satisfaction.

"Oh no, Londo," she had warned. "Remember our bargain. Touch me again, and I'll kill you, remember?"

He blinked at her, marshalling his slightly hungover thoughts. "Yes," he murmured, slowly. "I do remember something like that. Perhaps I had simply hoped you would reconsider." His vague smile had a warm, satisfied weight settling in her belly. She had learned quickly indeed. But she sniffed disdainfully anyway, absolutely determined.

"Certainly not!" she exclaimed. "Do you really think that highly of yourself?"

He'd shrugged amiably. It had been damnably hard to actually shake the man for any great length of time, she remembered. It was one of the few things she had always respected in him. "It does no harm to try," he muttered. "But I take your point my dear. Somewhere between the shoulderblades, perhaps?"

She'd glared at him for that. "Not at all!" she'd declared, genuinely angry. "I have no interest in poisons and backstabbing, and no respect for those poor women foolish enough to use them!" He'd blinked at her vehemence. "No, Londo. When I come to kill you, I shall do so up front, with none of that messing about!"

He stared at her for the longest moment in bemusement, and then threw his head back and roared with laughter. She's stiffened in affront, but he didn't stop, looking at her with raw delight through tears of laughter. She glared at him pointedly until, finally, he drew in a shuddering breath and got himself under control.

"And what, might I ask, is so funny?" she'd asked, dangerously. He'd shaken his head, still chuckling intermittently.

"Nothing, my dear," he managed at last. "Will you come for me with a challenge, I wonder? Kutari at dawn?" And he could not hide the mirth riding beneath the words.

She had drawn herself up, stiff and proud, and glared at him until he stopped and looked at her. She held his gaze icily as he quieted, and something in her warned him of her intent, of her utter seriousness. He stared back at her, and something had settled then in his gaze. Something that might have been respect.

"Yes," she had said, softly and with quiet, deadly conviction. "If I must."

And that had been the last she'd heard of it, for many years. Daggair had come, and then Mariel, and she'd watched him with them, watched him deflect Daggair's snide assaults with the practised air of a politician, watched the lustful, uncaring dance he and Mariel engaged in. It had meant little to her, even when the others took to sniping at her in his presence. She played the game of verbal sparring better than any, and danced her own little dance around them. And smiled a little, in the privacy of her mind, when she caught the faint glimmers of amused approval in his eyes whenever she viciously put them down.

And then, after many trials and tribulations, after years apart and frought days together, he'd gotten assigned to Babylon 5. He'd gotten as far from the three of them as possible, and in all honesty she couldn't have begrudged him his escape. As she'd said that first night, the best of marriages relied on a complete lack of communication. She couldn't fault him for endeavouring to manage just that. That, at least, had not surprised her.

But his parting gift had. He'd never given her gifts. She disdained them. He'd heaped them on the others, of course, who went for that kind of thing, but never her. But when he left that time, he had.

Daggair recieved an unlimited account at Torani's, the central gossip factory on Centauri Prime, for as long as his funds allowed. For Mariel, a selection of perfumes and a credit account from a quaint little apothecary also well know for it's excellent line in poisons, and a wry note suggesting that she choose wisely. And then, a box, plain and unwrapped, adressed to her.

And inside it, a blade. Not quite a kutari, which would have been too big and cumbersome for her, but a smaller version, perfectly balanced and tailored for her size and weight. No fancy ornamentations, as she'd seen on the small, decorative knives that some women carried. Absolutely plain. Businesslike. Functional.

As Daggair snidely remarked on the distinctly unfeminine nature of her present, and Mariel watched with glittering, contemptuous eyes, she'd unfolded the small card, and read the three words written there.

Against the dawn.

And smiled. Because it wasn't a bad gift to recieve, after all.

Respect never was.

------------

 

She sat now with that blade in her hands, absently smoothing her fingers along its curves as she watched the sun slowly climb above the horizon. She tipped her head back to look up at him. No. She had never really been in love with him. But she had respected him, even at his worst. And, in some quiet, hidden place deep in her heart, she had always loved him. Just a little. He'd needed it, demanded it. Londo had needed love as other men needed air. But he had loved back with equal fervour, so maybe things evened out.

She smiled gently, tiredly, as she felt the first clenching in her gut, as the numbness began to spread its silvery way outward from her chest. Not poison. There was no-one brave enough, not now. But death, despite that. It was death alright. She had remembered, of course. Her deathdream. Sitting in the dawn shadow of a great and foolish man, a blade on her knees.

She closed her eyes for a few minutes, resting herself. She was tired, and complete. But she couldn't go quite yet. She had to wait for the appearance of a sad, round face, a face that had seen so much pain in its time. And yet, a face that still remembered how to smile. A face that had, once upon a time, crumpled beneath her harsh stare.

She smiled slightly as a shadow fell across her, and looked up into the sad, rumpled features of Emperor Vir Cotto. The last friend Londo had left. The boy he had loved. She smiled up at him, at the sad understanding in his eyes, and laughed a little when she realised he grieved for her. She hadn't expected that. She was not a woman people cared for, grieved after. She was too blunt and harsh for that. But Vir ... this boy couldn't do anything else, could he? He had loved Londo, even at his most dangerously foolish. He had stood by him, even in the darkest of days. She shouldn't be surprised that Vir could care for her, too.

Londo had, after all.

She lay back a little against the stone, closing her eyes, and smiled when she felt him sit down, silently, beside her. She was warm, now, and quiet inside herself. It was more peace than she'd ever had, she thought wryly. But then, she'd never been one for taking it easy.

"There's a place, near him," Vir said softly beside her. "I arranged it."

She smiled. Trust this new Emperor of theirs to think of that. The boy would do well yet, she thought. She'd pointed out a few things to him herself, while she'd been at it. It never hurt to try, as Londo used to say. Except when it did, of course. But Vir would do well. Of that much, she was sure.

She smiled again to herself, and firmed her grip around the hilt.

"Against the dawn, Londo," she whispered, very, very quietly.

She never did hear if Vir tried to answer.